


Red Ribbons

by tronjolras



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras and Jehan are cousins, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, incredibly sad, mimics deaths in the brick, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tronjolras/pseuds/tronjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirens wailed, people screamed, yelled, cried, at the top of their lungs, bones cracked, bodies hit the pavement, skin hit skin, and backs were hit with clubs. Yet even through the noise, the fighting, the mass confusion; even through chaos, they all heard the shot, and for Courfeyrac, everything fell silent after the words "Long live the Future!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Ribbons

The protest was quickly getting out of hand. The the din was deafening Courfeyrac. No one knew who had thrown the first punch, but suddenly, the police were upon them. To his right, Enjolras was exchanging blows with an older cop, the selfsame man who had betrayed them. Despite his savagery, Enjolras still looked angelic. That was the terrible thing about him. Behind Courfeyrac, Marius knelt by Eponine: she was unconscious. Combeferre dealt the police any number of horrific blows for that. With Courfeyrac guarding Marius and Eponine, he didn't have much opportunity to actively join in the fight. Musichetta, with a grueling battle cry, lunged at the officer tangled with Enjolras. Grantaire held his own, which was only to be expected. The posters and flyers they had all worked so hard on were now being trampled into the wet pavement. It had started to drizzle earlier that day, so everyone's sight was blurred.

Courfeyrac's mind spinned fast, anticipating every threat. If a policeman so much as stumbled into him now, they would surely receive a square punch in the jaw.

The Amis and those who had come to support them had spread the fight all over the ordinarily peaceful square. The shops surrounding it were closing up and fearful faces peered through the windows.

Sirens wailed, people screamed, yelled, cried, at the top of their lungs, bones cracked, bodies hit the pavement, skin hit skin, and backs were hit with clubs. Yet even through the noise, the fighting, the mass confusion; even through chaos, they all heard the shot, and for Courfeyrac, everything fell silent after the words "Long live the Future!" 

He knew the voice they all knew the voice.

Recklessly, Courfeyrac ran in the direction of the last thing he heard. He scrambled around as if drunk. He barreled through the people because he needed to get to that voice.

He was ten feet away when he was stopped by a policeman. The struggle Courfeyrac put up was all for naught. The man was much bigger and stronger than him. The cop's lips were moving, but Courfeyrac couldn't hear him. Instead, he strained his eyes. There was a circle of cops standing together, surrounding something. He could barely see through them, but then one stepped away, muttering into a radio.

He could see a hand and its adjoining wrist lying on the pavement, that was it. The outstretched, ink stained, right hand of his poet. The fingers were curled as if he held a pen. He was writing his last verses. Red blood wrapped itself around the arm, the hands the fingers. They were red ribbons. The strings he tied and braided into his hair, and, a few times, Enjolras'. Some blood pooled at the new tattoo on his wrist--a scarlet lily. He had gotten it only the night before. Courfeyrac had gone with him. The ridges were so new, the blood colored the petals.

He kept waiting for the hand to move. A twitch of the fingers. Just a pulse.

Another set of hands grasped him and held him. Combeferre's terrible cologne enveloped him. Words were murmured against his ear as he was immobilized by his surprisingly strong friend. Glasses pushed into the back of his scalp, but Courfeyrac could not tear his attention away from the hand.

Black shoes stepped near it. The feet were attached to a body. Courfeyrac followed the line of the of the uniform up to the face of a young, bewildered officer. Tears brimmed from his eyes. His fingers held an absent gun. Another cop came up to him and and put a hand on his back to lead his colleague away.

"You don't get to do that!" Courfeyrac's mind shouted. "You can't just walk away!" The gunshot continued to echo in his mind, it bore down on his ears like a contemptuous buzz and a jarring bang all at once.

The crowd heard shouts of "Ambulance!" when a team of vehicles entered the square. The paramedics set up shop quickly.  
Courfeyrac shut his eyes determinedly when Jehan was lifted from the ground on a stretcher and brought into the ambulance. Combeferre still held him tightly. The ambulance with Jehan left immediately. It meant the worst. Combeferre refused treatment from the paramedics, he had only a couple of minor scratches. His tirade had made him nearly invincible. He redirected the paramedics to his girlfriend instead.

~~~~~

The square was clear before the rain stopped. The police left the scene without making an arrest, most of the perpetrators were brought to the hospital anyways. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were taken in the same ambulance as Feuilly and Bahorel, even though neither of them had any serious injuries--neither did Feuilly, but Bahorel was pretty beat up. It was only to be expected, he had taken on no less than than two cops at a time. When Combeferre asked, the paramedics told him that Jehan would most likely be taken immediately to the morgue, then someone would need to identify the body. He asked Courfeyrac if he wanted to.Courfeyrac heard the question shouted from a distance, all he could do was nod numbly. 

They get to the hospital and still, Combeferre does not leave Courfeyrac's side. He knows Eponine is alright, Marius--and most likely Cossette-- would stay with her until she woke up. They walk straight to the morgue. Enjolras is already there. His nose is still bleeding and he looks a little vague. No doubt he refused any treatment until Jehan was taken care of. Courfeyrac's face is still contorted like a sob, but he is silent. Enjolras touches his a rm gently then pulls him into a rough hug. Combeferre takes Courfeyrac's hand and leads him to the door.

"Are you ready to go in?"

Courfeyrac shakes his head suddenly. All of his courage left him so abruptly, he stumbled backwards. Enjolras caught him lightly.

"I will," Enjolras volunteered quietly. "He's family." There's a catch in his voice and it scares Combeferre because Enjolras looks so hopeless and Courfeyrac is falling to pieces, but he just nods and hold the door open for Jehan's cousin, and practically his older brother.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre just sit on the end of a line of navy blue plastic chairs near the door. Combeferre's. There's a decorative chair rail on the walls in the hallway, separating the white paint on top and a mauvish-pink on the bottom. It's a rusty maroon and Courfeyrac can't bring himself to look at it because it looks like blood and it only reminds him of seeing the hand of his poet and the red ribbons he liked to use. 

Enjolras emerged with his head bent some time later. In his hand is a crumpled piece of paper. "They found this in his jacket pocket" he told Courfeyrac, handing him the paper.

He doesn't read it.

From his other hand, he hold out a worn out, brown leather wallet and a cell phone. "They found this in his jeans, and his phone."

Courfeyrac takes the wallet as well and stuffed the paper inside it before depositing it into his own pants pocket. The phone he held until his knuckles turned white.

"They're disposing of the clothes because of the blood. The police called his parents…”

Finally Courfeyrac raises his eyes and looks at Enjolras, it was a look that asked "What did he look like?"

"He looked like he was sleeping," Enjolras responds.

Courfeyrac knows what that looks like. Overall he would look peaceful. Sleeping didn't make Jehan look any younger though, like it did Courfeyrac, it made him look exactly the age he was. His mouth would be slightly down turned, but not like a frown. His dark eyelashes contrasted his alabaster skin and freckles lazily dotted his cheeks. But he couldn't look exactly like he was sleeping because there would be no slight blush across his face, a sign of his constant timidity.

"I told them that we wanted to bury him, I just thought he would like to be buried instead of burned… so we could plant flowers," Enjolras ended in an uncharacteristic mumble.

~~~~~

Slowly, the Amis are all released, patched up as much as possible. Cosette's father comes to take them all to the parking lot where they had parked before the protest. By nightfall, they're in the back room of the Musian. Combeferre is sitting with Eponine, next to Marius and Cosette. Valjean had returned to his house an hour before, his paternal obligations completed and feeling out of place amongst all the young people. Before he left though, he stopped before Courfeyrac and Enjolras, placing a hand on each of their shoulders and voicing a solemn "I'm sorry." 

Courfeyrac was still silent. Enjolras sat next to him, staring at the fire. Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet adjourned to their usual arm chair, they had to be careful though, Joly and Bossuet had both received a broken arm and plenty of bruises. Musichetta had somehow walked away unharmed. Feuilly lounged against the side of the couch Courfeyrac and Enjolras sat on. Bahorel was sprawledonthe carpet in front of the fireplace. Grantaire wasn't there. They all knew why, he dealt with things alone and drinking. Bahorel had dropped him off at a bar around the corner. He would stumble into Bahorel and Feuilly's apartment and crash on the couch at the end of the night as opposed to going home to his and Enjolras' apartment bumbling drunk. Deep down in Enjolras, he admitted it was alright. He wanted to sleep alone tonight anyways.

Annoyed by the silence and needing a distraction, Joly turned on the television over the fireplace. The local news was on. There was footage of the protest. None of the Amis remembered seeing any cameras there, but apparently they were there. It was in the middle of the broadcast of the event. The anchor's words drifted around them. "The local police report several injuries to the protesters and one fatality." It was presented with a biting indifference. "Twenty-two year old Jean Prouvaire was shot once in the chest by …” the words faded out of Courfeyrac's senses when the screen switched to a picture if Jehan. It was from his twenty-first birthday. He remembered the picture bitter sweetly. They had just started dating at the time. The photograph itself was taken by Mrs. Prouvaire, she must have sent it in. It was cropped so only Jehan was in the picture, but you could see Courfeyrac's arm slung around his neck. Jehan looked flushed and happy, an outcome of his first night of legal drinking. He didn't look at all like himself. It affected the whole group to see their friend sent off with a picture that might as well have been fake, but before any of them could complain, the picture dissolved into one of the officer who killed him, then a video statement from the officer. Joly turned off the television abruptly. No one wanted to hear from the killer.

The whole room drew a little bit closer together.

One by one groups left. Marius and Cosette were first, Cosette saying that she needed to get home before her father worried too much. He didn't tell the group, but Marius planned on staying with her tonight, instead of having to go back to his and Courfeyrac's apartment where he would be brutally confronted by all the memories of Jehan there. Next were Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. They had no particular reason other than it was late and they were worn out and tired. Feuilly regretfully informed them that he had work in the morning and would be fired if he was late. Bahorel went to go get drunk with Grantaire. He didn't say that, but they knew. Combeferre and Eponine left soon afterward, her head still hurt like hell. Only Courfeyrac and Enjolras were left.

Enjolras had dwelt in darkness since the death was confirmed. It was all his fault for the protest dissolving into chaos, he was sure. No, the whole idea to protest today was his, only his, he had suggested it. No, it went farther, it was Enjolras' fault for ever introducing his younger cousin to his friends at all. If only he hadn't done that, Jehan would be alive. Yes, it was all his fault. 

"Do you want to stay at my place tonight?" Enjolras asked quietly.

Courfeyrac nodded vaguely.

"Grantaire won't come home tonight and I thought you wouldn't want to go back to your apartment so soon since all of Jehan's stuff is there. I'll probably call Jehan's parents, maybe mine, they're all arranging a funeral already, I'm sure. Aunt Marie will want to talk to you…" his voice caught and he stopped himself from rambling. "Alright?"

Courfeyrac cleared his throat and replied hoarsely, "Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> A story written for sarcasticasshat on tumblr.  
> I hope you cry as much reading it as I did writing it.


End file.
